


My Conflict Kills

by Cutebutpsycho



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crimelord AU, Dark Mycroft Holmes, Dark Sally Donovan, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-12-06 04:51:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11593308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cutebutpsycho/pseuds/Cutebutpsycho
Summary: Why he picked her, Sally would never understand, but it was nice. She knew he wanted someone honorable on his side, and he had slowly seduced her over to him. Being a smart man, he was also careful not to discuss his work nor ask her about hers. They were in a bubble -- a carefully tended sanctuary that would eventually pay off for the both of them.





	My Conflict Kills

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OccasionallyCreative](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OccasionallyCreative/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Hunter & The Game](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11550198) by [OccasionallyCreative](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OccasionallyCreative/pseuds/OccasionallyCreative). 



> Birthed from a conversation with Occasionally Creative, this is a companion piece to her work, The Hunter & The Game.

“They’re on the verge of war again,” she commented one morning. 

“They’re always on the verge of war,” Mycroft snorted, “Now that I’m out of the picture, they have no one else to antagonize but each other.”

Sally chuckled. “So it’s sibling rivalry, but with London caught in the crossfire?”

Mycroft nodded, a mirthful smirk breaking through the well-kept auburn beard he had grown since they arrived at the island. “Don’t tell me you wish you were in the chase?” he asked.

Sally looked around her surroundings. They were seated in the villa and she could smell the brine of the ocean and hear its soft roar. She took a sip of her smoothie and inhaled, savoring the smell of the tropics. She knew he was calculating the odds of her answer behind those vintage sunglasses, waiting for that moment when she’d turn on him. 

Sometimes she thought she was going to leave, go back to London, tell everyone that the great criminal mastermind Mycroft Holmes was still alive. If she made it out alive, she’d bring him in to face justice -- the man that brought down the United Kingdom’s economy by encouraging people to vote to leave the European Union. People who honestly were too stupid to know they were getting fleeced voted for Brexit, despite the warnings from others. 

It was genius and a vicious two-pronged attack. First, he bet that the value of the pound would fall through exchange-traded funds, which occurred immediately after the referendum passed and the government began the messy proceedings of divorcing the European Union. The shorting of the pound gave him a rather sizable payout, rivaling the GDP of some small nations.

Second, immediately after the referendum results, Mycroft used an assortment of shell companies and false fronts to purchase companies, property and anything else he could get from panicked investors. By the time the dust had settled, Mycroft Holmes owned two-thirds of London and three-fourths of England. He had come close to getting his hands on a few titles, but even under duress, the elite would never give that up. 

Mycroft was in the midst of selling the various assets off chunk by chunk to fund this ridiculous lifestyle that Sally was becoming very accustomed to on a large tropical island in French Polynesia. But sometimes she wondered what would happen if she returned to England with him in handcuffs. Other times she wondered if he’d even let her leave alive. 

Then he’d look at her with that lazy smile and she’d wonder why the hell she’d want to leave in the first damn place. Even though her mother always told her that it was important to do good, even if it bit you in your own arse, Sally had finally gotten tired of pulling all the teeth out of her bum. 

Why he picked her, Sally would never understand, but it was nice. She knew he wanted someone honorable on his side, and he had slowly seduced her over to him. Being a smart man, he was also careful not to discuss his work nor ask her about hers. They were in a bubble -- a carefully tended sanctuary that would eventually pay off for the both of them. 

They first met when she was undercover. She was working as a nightclub singer/go-go dancer at Rubicon, trying to track down the supplier of a particularly nasty strain of cocaine -- top grade stuff mixed with a heavy narcotic -- which was responsible for several overdose deaths among the elite and wealthy. 

She knew about Mycroft Holmes, as well as his little brother and sister. They were all regarded as criminal geniuses in their own respective areas. While Eurus and Sherlock were the flashier of the three, winding their way through London without regard for what people thought of them, Mycroft was more subtle. There was little information about him, most of it outdated. The last photo of him showed a man with auburn hair and a scruffy beard in Russia. 

That was about fifteen years ago, before he slid further underground, striking out on his own from his parents and building onto the family empire. Baby brother and sister had helped him run the operation, but lately, there was word of discontent among the siblings.

In any case, he had summoned her to a private room at the club after her performance. That wasn’t unusual. Sally had heard of people being summoned to the upper ring, where the rich and royal watched the plebes down below lose themselves to their various addictions. As a matter of fact, that was her target, and she was finally relieved to get someone’s attention up there.

The private room was plush and luxurious, even beyond the private tables that circled the floor. There was a huge leather couch, private bar and a broad bank of windows that let people look down on the action below. 

Inside the room was a middle aged man, balding and beaky. His entire expression was bland and inoffensive. Dressed in a three-piece suit, Sally noted that he moved with a predatory stealth which ran counter to initial impressions. If she was as thick as some people thought she was, Sally probably wouldn’t have recalled the past pictures of the Holmes criminal family tree and the outdated photograph of Mycroft Holmes. If she was as simple as Sherlock and Eurus Holmes thought, she wouldn’t have figured out the man standing before her was the mysterious Mycroft Holmes, fifteen years older and probably more dangerous.

But Sally wasn’t that thick. And she also knew better than to tip her hand that she recognized him. Instead, she pasted the most flirtatious smile on her face, greeting him sweetly.

“I enjoyed your performance,” he said pouring a glass of champagne and motioned for her to sit. “I am glad you agreed to meet with me.”

Sally smiled sweetly and accepted the glass, “Thank you” she replied, taking her place on the couch next to him. 

He sat next to her, his hands millimeters away from her. She could feel the heat radiating from him, sense the desire to place a hand on her thigh. If she played her cards right, maybe she could find some information regarding the dealer of the coke.

Two hours later, she wasn’t sure of that. Instead, he was asking her about herself. No doubt he was smirking inwardly as she tap danced around, making up answers and stories as fast as she could spin them to keep him distracted. Maybe this was his idea of fun -- messing with overworked undercover cops trying to do drug busts. Any attempt to ask him questions ended with him deflecting and her continuing to flail as she made up answers.

“I deal with imports and exports, as well as some finance,” he said with a little smile, when she asked about him. “Nothing as interesting as your job my dear.”

Later that evening -- more morning, as the night sky turned into a deep blue -- as she headed back to her tiny flat, Sally cursed herself and her inability to get a connection with him. So close, and yet so far. The man was living up to the moniker of Iceman, given how slippery he was.

Two days later, at Rubicon, she received a dozen orange roses and a handwritten note.  _ Uncle Kamchy _ was all it said. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. One month of double shifts and little sleep, the supplier of the bad cocaine was arrested and shut down. 

The initial high of the arrest soon wore off as another set of dealers moved into to fill the vacuum and positions. Because their quality of drugs were higher and not killing aristocrats, the priority of that investigation dropped as the public and politicians bayed for the arrest of black and brown children dealing minor amounts of marijuana.

Not to mention austerity measures continued to hack away at Scotland Yard as open positions remained unfilled. Politicians blathered on about how everyone had to do more with less, stiff upper lip, blah, blah, blah, bollocks. In the end it just meant more double shifts and less sleep.

It was disheartening. That’s probably why he chose her. Mycroft could smell her dissatisfaction like a shark smelling chum in the water. His second visit came at her weakest point, after working double shifts for weeks thanks to the increase in stabbings in London as well as an attack on a mosque. 

“I would call the police, but I am honestly so tired right now my only question is if you brought dinner,” she said, opening her door to him. Sally wasn’t surprised he found her. She was familiar with stories about the Holmes siblings and their genius. Finding her for him was probably as simple as posting their status online for normal people.

“Aren’t you the police?” he asked, closing the door behind him. There was an amused tone in his voice, as if he had weighed the odds of her inviting him in her flat.  

“I’m done for the night,” she said, flopping down on the couch. “I just worked two twenty-hour shifts back to back thanks to that truck running over people at the Camden mosque. They can come and arrest you,” Sally picked up the remote and turned off the telly.

She moved to make room for him. He sat and opened the bag. The smell of cheese and cooked ground beef made her groan as she peered in the bag. “Honest Burgers?” she asked.

He nodded, handing her a cocktail. “Two Honest Burgers and bacon ketchup with the chips,” he said, balancing the container on his legs. “I am not sure what you like, but I hope this is adequate.”

Taking a bite of the burger, Sally moaned in delight, “More than,” she said, wiping ketchup from her face, “I know I shouldn’t be thanking you and this is probably breaking some code of ethics bylaw, but this is too good.” She sipped the cocktail. 

There was a long silence as they ate. Mycroft took small bites, obviously savoring his food. Sally wolfed down the burger, then the chips and finished her drink. Letting out a happy sigh, she glanced over at him.

“Why are you here?” she asked.

He wiped his mouth with a napkin. “I find you interesting.”

She snorted. 

“I do,” there was a faint smile on his face. 

“If you think I’m an easy in, you’re barking up the wrong tree,” Sally said, suddenly wishing she had more to drink. “I don’t have any information on anything. I am but a mere foot soldier in the war against crime.” The last sentence was said was a bit of sarcasm.

He conjured up another cocktail, which she accepted. 

“That’s why you’re special,” he said. For a moment, he looked tired.

She sipped the drink. “Okay,” she said, after a long silence. “Only because I’m too tired to fight any of this. And you brought dinner.”

He chuckled.

That’s how Mycroft seduced her -- he actually listened to her ramble on about how unappreciated she felt. How the co-workers kept calling her a “twofer”. How the long shifts were wearing her and her judgement down. How the rich never seemed to get justice and the poor were too ungrateful to recognize that she was desperately trying to get justice for them. 

Sally knew he had his hand in a little bit of everything, but his primary focus was fleecing financial structures. Even though she didn’t have evidence, nor a clue as to where to look, Sally knew that Mycroft like betting against banks’, industrialists’, nations’ and economists’ hubris, betting that fail-proof structures were as delicate as soap bubbles 

Technically that was all legal. What wasn’t legal was the influence Sherlock and Eurus used to ensure the structures would collapse on Mycroft’s prediction -- not that Mycroft told Sally that. She figured it out thanks to newspapers and office gossip. 

Everything was carefully couched in terms about family conflicts and petty squabbles. Sally was also willing to turn a blind eye at times, knowing that at least some of the bigger fish got fried.

She’d listen to him moan on about his brother and sister and how they were smart, but unfocused, which would become dangerous as they picked off targets -- never named, but easily inferred. First Shan, then Moriarty, then Magnussen. Soon all the criminals fell until there was only the Holmes siblings. With the lack of enemies, Sherlock and Eurus focused their sights on him. 

The war between the Holmes siblings was also taking its toll on her. Somehow Eurus and Sherlock had deduced her connection to Mycroft and were slowly picking off everything near and dear to her. 

Lestrade had been forced into an early retirement after his wife died in a car crash. The final blow was her parents. They were killed in a tower fire, which was ruled an accident. The final insult was the fact that the housing complex they were in used cheap, yet expensive materials, to look more luxurious. In reality, they were probably about as useful to stop fires as a squirt gun.

The worst part was that she knew nothing was going to happen. It was all written into code and law, so it was all legal and proper. Greed had won and there was nothing she could do.

She was drunk -- completely gone on whiskey and anger -- when he let himself in her flat. 

“Did you have something to do with it?” she asked slowly, turning her fury to him.

“I don’t understand what you mean,” he said, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. 

Before either of them knew it, she had leaped forward, raining blows on him. Mycroft -- despite his mild appearance, dodged her attacks easily, but didn’t respond. She tackled him, knocking him over and pulling the pistol out from his shoulder holster. 

Standing, she pointed the pistol at Mycroft. He remained on the ground, keeping his hands up in surrender. His neatly combed hair was mussed and blood was trickling out of a split lip. The expression on his face was blandly neutral, but she knew he was calculating his odds of success.

“I know you,” she panted, “You arrange meetings between people for different things. You make wagers on things like this. It’s not hard to figure out. I know people would love to see that tower burn so they could build something for rich toffs there instead. It’s a good opportunity. Now,” she spat out, “Did. You. Have. Something. To. Do. With. It?”

The safety clicked off. “Did. You. Have. Something. To. Do. With. It?” she asked again.

“I think,” he began slowly, moving to a kneeling position, with his hands up, “I would rather die than for you to know the truth.”

When did her face get wet? She wondered, wiping the tears from her eyes. 

Then the wave of nausea hit and she bent over, heaving the alcohol up as well as her dinner. She could sense him standing and taking the gun from her. For a split-second, she prepared herself for the last sound she’d hear being a bullet being fired from a gun.

“Come on,” he said, pulling her up and taking her to the bathroom, “Let’s get all that out of you.”

He held her hair as she vomited, wiped her face, brought her water and cleaned the sitting room floor. She couldn’t stop shaking, knowing that he answered her question in a way. If he didn’t do it, he definitely knew the players in question. Murdering him, while temporarily satisfying, would end any ability to bring justice.

“What does my queen require?” he asked later that night, after he had taken her to bed with a cool washcloth and a bowl in case she got sick again. 

The lights were out and only the street offered dim illumination. He had stripped off his jacket and his tie was loosened and the top shirt buttons undone. His sleeves were rolled up, showing his arms, which she couldn’t help but see as the shedding of armor. He was standing across from her, leaning against her dresser, arms crossed.

By the time he asked that question, the rage had cooled. In the dim light, it looked like he had actual concern for her, and it pleased her. Sally took a long sip of cold water and spoke:

“Revenge.”

He nodded. 

In the weeks that followed, the contractor that designed the complex was found dead of apparent suicide after child pornography linked to him was leaked to the press. An MP in charge of changing building code rules to allow the cheap features was jailed on embezzlement. Two weeks later he was murdered in jail. Other people were found dead in suspicious looking accidents, sudden illnesses and other mysterious circumstances. 

Sally watched the news with a small sense of satisfaction. In some of the cases, the assets were seized, used to help house displaced tenants from the fire and rebuild. She saw his fingerprints all over it and couldn’t help but feel a pang of affection in that instead of taking the money, he sent it to people who needed it more.

Why have an angry mastiff on a leash if you couldn’t let it loose once in awhile to wreak havoc? She knew she would owe him in the future, but it would be worth it to cut through the red tape and get some real, lasting justice. Which had happened for the first time in years. 

Given their past, how he listened to her and granted her only wish, she knew what her answer would be when he finally told her what he wanted from her: Bring him in after Brexit, ready to give a full confession of his influence in the matter, as well as the depth and breadth of his criminal organization.

“I’m getting old Sally,” he said one night, swirling some ridiculously aged Scotch in a glass after dinner. “My siblings are plotting to kill me and I’m tired of their games. It’s tedious and immature. I want quiet. I have an island I’d like to get away to, but I need your help.”

“And in exchange?”

“Come with me,” he said. It sounded like a business proposal. “If you know my secret, I’d want to keep you with me to ensure that it never got leaked.” It wasn’t said, but Sally could hear  _ and I don’t want to be alone  _ under everything else.

Seeing the wear and tear on his face made her decision easy. Even she was tired. Of trying to do good, only to be thwarted by money and privilege. Of fighting battles on multiple fronts by criminal masterminds. For every hard-earned victory, there was another defeat as power vacuums were filled with bigger and badder elements that were ignored as long as the right hands received the right amount of cash.

They both were tired. So, so tired of everything.

It was a cloudy day when they died in that car explosion. The headlines blared about the heroic inspector who was bringing in the criminal genius that brought down a nation and how her life -- filled with community service and good deeds -- was cut tragically short. 

“It doesn’t matter Sally,” Mycroft told her as a way of small comfort as they flew off in a private jet, exchanging one island for another. “When the good die, they’re sainted, then ultimately forgotten.”

He was right. They soon became a small footnote in the London underworld war that was brewing as brother prepared to destroy sister and vice versa. 

Deep down, she knew she was his prisoner. They didn’t travel anywhere without a group of armed bodyguards and the only people they talked to were the ones Mycroft allowed on the island. Each week a boat would arrive with supplies, then depart. 

Weirdly she didn’t mind. Sally knew she was dealing with Stockholm Syndrome, but Mycroft was interesting in how he exerted his subtle control -- like a gentle touch on the back, guiding her to where he needed her. He gave her space and privacy when she needed it and company when she craved it. He allowed her to talk to people, knowing that she wouldn’t say too much. They were too intertwined. She had aided and abetted him and if he was to go down, she would be dammed along with him. And once in jail, there was no telling what would happen to her thanks to the Holmes’ network.

Often she questioned if it really was Stockholm Syndrome if she was willing to burn the world down because someone offered an escape from a never-ending war?

“Do you wish you were back in the chase?” Mycroft’s words brought her back to the moment. He had pulled the sunglasses down, brown eyes studying her intently.

Sally thought, then a broad smile broke across her face as she began to laugh, freely and without thought, “Nah.”

  
  



End file.
